


Wide Awake

by eeyore9990



Series: December Gift Fic Spree [7]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: First Kiss, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-07
Updated: 2014-12-07
Packaged: 2018-02-28 13:40:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,988
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2734637
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eeyore9990/pseuds/eeyore9990
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John’s newest deputy seems to have an overdeveloped case of hero worship.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Wide Awake

**Author's Note:**

  * For [devilscut](https://archiveofourown.org/users/devilscut/gifts).



> December Fic Spree, Day 7: Gift for [devilscut](http://archiveofourown.org/users/devilscut)

John stares down, numbly moving his foot when a puddle of something dark but glinting red in the late afternoon sun — _God, please let that be transmission fluid_ — spreads inexorably toward him. He doesn’t flinch when a hand drops on his elbow, mind still caught on the scene in front of him.

"Sir."

He cocks his head in acknowledgement, watching the fluid creep further from the belly of the decimated vehicle.

"Sir." The hand on his elbow squeezes and tugs, pulling John out of the trance-like state he’d been in. 

He allows himself one deep, shuddering breath before turning to see his newest deputy, standing in front of him, his whole, too-young face soft with sympathy. “Parrish,” John says, his voice gruff. “Tell me you got the paramedics’ report.”

"Yes, sir. Young male, late teens to early twenties. Heartbeat weak but—"

"He’s _alive_?” His blurted question, and subsequent interruption of a deputy giving a report, is unprofessional as hell, but the car is… no longer recognizably a car. He turns back to it, trying to see how surviving such a thing was possible. His mind cannot compute that with the horrific evidence before him.

"Yeah, well. You know. Cars these days are built to crumple in an impact. It absorbs the force of the collision and helps protect the driver and passengers. Plus, his airbag deployed and he was wearing a seatbelt." Parrish seems to realize then that he’s still holding on to John’s arm. With an apologetic sound and a flush that dashes color across his cheekbones, he drops his hand and steps back, eyes darting to his notepad. "A um. The uh." Parrish flips the page in his Army-issue memo tablet back and forth before landing on the same page he’d started on. 

For the first time since they’d arrived on scene, John feels a smile threatening. 

"The 9-1-1 call was placed by a driver who witnessed the accident. Apparently the car’s left front tire blew. To avoid a head-on collision, our victim overcorrected and drove into this tree instead."

"Tell me about the car of the witness."

Parrish’s eyes go wide, a little panicky. “Late model minivan. I’m sorry; I didn’t think to run the plates. I can do that now, if you—”

John holds up a hand, cutting Parrish off. “Walk through this with me. It’s 3:30 pm, you’re driving back from…” John’s mind flashes on a sticker he’d seen in the back windshield of the car. “From the community college over in Trinity County. You’re running on bald tires because you’re a college student who can barely afford the twenty cents for a packet of Ramen noodles. You just need them to hold out another week and a half ‘til Christmas, because you’re pretty sure your parents will be more susceptible to you begging money at the holiday. You’ve just taken your last exam. You’re wiped. You’re going five over the limit because you just want to get home and put on some sweatpants and… I don’t know. Play Call of Duty on your Xbox. You pass a school bus loaded with kids. Not two seconds later, your tire blows. You look out your windshield and see…” He pauses here, lets Parrish fill in the blanks.

"Oh god. A soccer mom car. He knew, or had a good feeling, there were kids in that minivan." Parrish swallows hard enough that John can see his Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat.

Looking back at the car, John shakes his head. “That’s the problem with this town. Too many big damn heroes.” Sighing, he runs his hand down his face and looks to the sky for answers. None come, but when he drops his gaze to his deputy, he sees the boy smiling gently at him. “What?”

Parrish shrugs, all boy scout innocence. “Seems like this town just follows their leader.”

Rolling his eyes, John waves at Mike to bring the wrecker down. “Hey, Parrish?”

"Sir?"

"Have the hospital call me when that kid wakes up."

—

It’s 2 am and John’s eyes are no longer capable of focusing on the tiny numbers in the spreadsheet he has to proof and send off to the State by 6. He just wants a gallon of coffee and a cream cheese danish from Alice’s Diner, but he’s pretty sure not even being sheriff would protect him from the breaking and entering charge he’d face.

As if by magic, a cup of coffee appears in front of him. John stares at it for a long, unblinking minute before a hand grabs his and brings it up, threading his numb fingers through the handle. Following the line of that arm, John sees Jordan Parrish leaning over him, a tired smile wreathing his face.

"Sorry, sir," he murmurs, falling into the pattern of whispering they all have to consciously work their way out of when they draw night shift. "You looked like you needed it."

"Thanks. You’re a life saver." John brings the coffee to his face, closing his eyes and inhaling, enjoying the burnt odor that rises off it. They just don’t make this kind of liquid tar at Starbucks, and John’s been drinking it too long to drink anything else. "You didn’t happen to overhear my wish for a cream cheese danish too, did you?"

Parrish’s eyes light up and he laughs softly. “No, sir. Sorry. The vending machine is only serving cheesepuffs and Skittles today; no danish. Besides,” his smile draws down to a smirk and he slants a knowing look at John. “Pretty sure Stiles would have words to say about a cream cheese danish appearing on your desk.”

Scoffing, John takes a sip of his coffee, scalding his tongue. Ahh, bliss. “Damn kid needs to remember who’s the parent in this relationship.”

A hand lands on his shoulder, squeezing gently. “He just worries about you because he loves you. Can’t say I blame him.” A beat passes, and John can _feel_ Parrish freaking out behind him. After almost eighteen years of living with Stiles, John has a sixth sense for these things. “I mean, about the worrying. I don’t blame him for _worrying_.”

John can’t hold back a rumbling chuckle. “Stand down, son. I knew what you meant.” Then he catches sight of the spreadsheet and sighs. “Hey, you got a minute?”

"Sure. It’s quiet tonight."

"It’s Beacon Hills; it’s always quiet." _Unless my son’s been possessed again or a rival pack of werewolves have invaded or hunters have gone gun-crazy or…_ John shakes off those thoughts and gestures toward his screen. “Mind reading me off those last two numbers in the third column? I think I need a new prescription for my glasses, because I swear those damn things are dancing on me.”

"Oh, um. Sure." Parrish leans down over him, and John gets a whiff of his cologne. It’s nice, woodsy and understated. "Twenty three and six point eight."

John grunts and cross checks it with the page of data in front of him. Everything checks out, so he attaches the spreadsheet to an email and fires it off to the state’s comptroller. 

When he looks up, he notices Parrish is at his office door, about to step through it. Not wanting the deputy to get away just yet, he calls out, “Undo a few buttons, son.”

Parrish goes stock still in the doorway before turning back to him, eyes wide. “Sir?”

John waves a hand around, gesturing at the empty office. “It’s night shift, Parrish. No need to be choking on buttons at 2 am. Relax a little. This shift is godawful enough as it is.”

Parrish smiles at him and raises his hands to his starched shirt collar, fiddling with it for a second before he slowly slides the top two buttons on his shirt free of their holes. Rubbing the skin underneath, he ducks his head and says, “Thanks. Sir.”

"You don’t have to sir me to death, either. My name’s John."

Parrish’s smile at that is _blinding_ , and John nearly groans as he realizes the kid has a massive case of hero worship. 

—

"What do you think?" John asks, pointing to the deer that’s been killed by something not human. 

Derek Hale squats down near the carcass, nostrils flaring as he takes a deep breath. “Not wolves,” Hale says, then tilts his head, eyes scanning the ground. “And… the ground is damp. There should be tracks, but there aren’t. Not of a predator, anyway.” Then, because the kid’s been living too long being prey, he looks _up_ and begins to walk unerringly along the path that shows the deer’s hoofprints. Pointing, he turns back to John. “That branch.” 

John steps forward, treating the area around the deer like a crime scene for now. He follows the path of Hale’s finger and sees a deep gouge in the bark of the tree. “Damn. Any idea what left those?”

Hale shakes his head. “I’m getting a scent, but it’s nothing I’m familiar with. Can you…” And then he trails off, eyes focused on something behind John. 

Turning, John sees Parrish approaching, his eyes narrowing on the deer before he squats and looks all around it, almost mirroring what Hale had done earlier. Standing, he walks over to them, being as careful not to disturb the ground as John had been. “No tracks besides the deer’s. It looks like an animal, but…”

Hale nods, though he’s far more stiff and unfriendly with Parrish standing there than he’d been earlier. 

Parrish lets out a whistle then, and John turns to see that he’s looking up at the branch they’d been studying. “What the _hell_?”

"My best guess is some kind of big cat. Call animal control, have them be on the lookout for a mountain lion. Check the local wildlife refuges too. Might be one of them is missing an animal." It’s the most words John has ever heard Hale string together, and it’s a good call, but…

John scrubs a hand over his forehead, sighing. “Just my luck. More mountain lions.”

Parrish bumps shoulders with him, grinning lopsidedly. “Could be worse.”

"Yeah? Tell me how?" 

When Parrish shrugs, John feels it all along his side because Parrish is still pressed up against him. It’s… not entirely unpleasant. “Could be a chupacabra.”

Hale clears his throat and Parrish jumps, a blush rising in his cheeks. Straight-faced, Hale mutters, “Chupacabras prefer goats.”

John and Parrish both stare at Hale until one corner of his mouth quirks up. Letting out a gust of breath, John glares at him. “You’re not funny.”

But Hale is still smiling to himself, so John lets it go and turns to Parrish, who is staring at him from less than a foot away. Parrish jumps again and backs off quickly before flapping his hand behind him and blurting something about processing the scene. When he skitters off, John shakes his head. “Swear that kid is too jumpy for his own good. Reminds me of Stiles.”

Hale makes a noise, a tiny little sound that John’s never heard before. Turning to look at him, thinking maybe he’s spotted something else, John sees Hale looking after Parrish with wide eyes. Turning that same look on John, he says, “Huh.”

"Huh?"

"Jordan was in the Army, right?" Hale turns around, trying too hard to look nonchalant as he stares up at the tree again.

John narrows his eyes. A small part of him wonders if Hale is digging for information on his deputy for a _reason_ , and the rest of him bows up a little at that thought. “Yeah, he was. He’s a good deputy and a fine man.”

"What was his job, do you know?"

Teeth clenching for no good goddamn reason, John grits out, “EOD specialist.”

"Bombs and stuff, huh?" Hale shoves his hands in his back pockets and rocks back on his heels, finally breaking away from staring at the branch to shoot John a knowing look. "I don’t know. Just doesn’t seem like a job they’d give to someone who was jumpy." Lifting one shoulder, he says, "Just something to think about. I’m going to call Scott, have him and Liam help me run the perimeter. I don’t think this is anything _we_ have to worry about, but it’s best to be a hundred percent.”

And then he just walks away, disappearing into the forest. 

Goddamn kids.

—

After that, John watches Parrish. He notices all the little things, the unnecessary touches that Parrish only bestows on him, the quick glances from the corners of his eyes, the way he sits up straighter when John walks into the bullpen. How he almost trips over himself in his rush when John asks him to either come to his office or accompany him on a call.

He still thinks the kid’s caught up in hero worship, but he’s not going to lie and say he isn’t hoping for something a little _more_. If nothing else, it’s flattering. Men of a certain age don’t usually catch the eyes of beautiful people half their age.

"Jordan," he says one afternoon, stopping near Parrish’s desk on the way to his office. 

Parrish looks up, like he hadn’t been at attention since John pulled the outer door open. “Sir?”

"You’re off shift in ten. This isn’t a requirement or anything, but I wanted to look over a cold case file tonight and thought a fresh pair of eyes might give me some new perspective on it. There’s a cold beer and a bloody steak in it for you. If you’re up for it and it doesn’t interfere in any other plans, of course."

Parrish’s mouth opens, his lips just barely parting for a long second before he smiles, big and happy. “Yeah, sure. I’d… that’d be great. No other plans, no. I can. I can be there. What time?”

Huh. Good question. “Five thirty? I mean, if you want to run home and change first. I know these uniforms aren’t exactly the height of comfort. Let me just get you my address—”

"Um. I can… follow you? I always keep a set of clothes in the car. I can change here and, uh. Follow you." 

John barely manages to bite back the smile that wants bloom. Nodding at Parrish, he raps his knuckles on the top of the kid’s desk and says, “Sounds good. I’ll just go call Stiles. Tell him to stay over at Scott’s tonight. I don’t want him poking his nose in where it doesn’t belong.”

Or interrupting anything that might happen.

—

John comes downstairs from changing clothes to find Parrish in the foyer, bending over in front of a low table on which years worth of Stilinski family pictures are laid out. Mostly they’re of Stiles — all his grade school portraits — but there are a few of him and Claudia in there as well. 

"Your wife was beautiful," Parrish says, not looking away from the picture of John and Claudia on their wedding day.

"Yes. She was." John hopes Parrish takes his short, clipped answer for what it is; an end to that conversation. For a multitude of reasons, he doesn’t want to bring his dead wife into the middle of … whatever this is.

Parrish straightens, turning to John with a look of contrition. “Sorry, I just…”

"Nothing to be sorry about." John tilts his head toward the kitchen and walks away, listening closely to see how long it takes Parrish to follow. He’s only gone about two paces before Parrish’s tread echoes behind him. 

In the kitchen, John pulls out the aforementioned beer, and hands one to Parrish after popping the top. “Hope you like the light stuff.”

"It’s fine," Parrish says, taking a quick sip. He’s all off kilter, jittery and nervous looking, and John… doesn’t want that.

Setting his beer down on the counter, John grabs the edge of it, leaning back and crossing his bare feet over each other so his body language is as open as it can be. “I didn’t actually ask you here to go over old files.”

Parrish looks up at him, mouth open and a question in his eyes, though he doesn’t voice it.

"I’m forty eight years old and I’ve got a kid that’s leaving for college next year, god willing. If I’m reading this wrong, just tell me. But if I’m not… I want you to know I’m—"

And that’s as far as he gets before Parrish hastily sets down his beer and lunges forward across the narrow, galley-style kitchen, hands going to John’s face — one still cold and wet from his beer, the other nice and warm in contrast — and pulling him into a kiss. It’s a little sloppy and a lot sudden, but John hasn’t forgotten how to do _this_. He sets one hand to Parrish’s waist, wraps the other around the kid’s neck and settles him down, moving him where John wants him. Parrish makes a whimpering sound, which John swallows down with a low rumble of his own, and it takes all he has to pull back from the kiss, gentling his retreat with a few soft, lingering pecks. 

"I guess that’s a no to me reading it wrong, then?"

Parrish shakes his head, eyes fluttering closed. 

John shifts his hand around, gets it up where he can smooth his thumb over the thin skin beside Parrish’s eye and murmurs, “Hey now. No hiding.”

Opening his eyes, Parrish lets John see how they’re glowing a muted orange. “Sorry, I just…” He swallows, his throat working. “I’ve wanted this for so long. I won’t be surprised if I wake up tomorrow and find it’s all been a dream.”

John snorts and drops his hand from Parrish’s waist to his ass and pinches it lightly. “Still dreaming?”

"No, sir," Parrish whispers, swaying forward, eyes growing brighter by the second where they’re locked on to John’s mouth. "I’m wide awake."

**Author's Note:**

> Don't be surprised if you wake up one day and there's more of this one.


End file.
